


"I was hooked. He's like a drug."

by nosheron



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, LSD, M/M, Pining, Sherlock - Freeform, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosheron/pseuds/nosheron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love. He loved John Watson, he always had. But John loved someone else, not him.<br/>Mary, he loved Mary.<br/>Why was it Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I was hooked. He's like a drug."

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic/ thing I've wrote in a while. Sorry if it sucks. I made this for Emma to feel sad lamo.

     

     With a hitch caught between his throat and zipped tight lips, the man dug the long needle that made him shiver when it poked through the vein along his arm.

     The man gasped, clenching his teeth together, as the syringe jabbed into his bloodstream. He winched, letting out a low groan of satisfaction and slight discomfort; this time more substances were in his body than the last time  (which was only a few days ago.) When the pinch of pain subsided, it was retracted from his arm that now looked slightly swollen. This concerned the man no longer. The needle was placed gently on the table next to him, as his head fell back down on the couch.

 

 

     This became a normal routine for Sherlock Holmes: Injecting drugs (that most likely were illegal, and may not even have a proper name) into his body that clouded his mind in a foggy daze. He would focus his thoughts on a particular subject that was causing him to fritz, let the drugs overpowering pulsation flood through his blood like a tidal wave, and force the sentimental feelings out. It took some time to get use to, and did cause unnecessary pain in the process of disregarding said thoughts, yet somehow it all worked out in the end; the world's only, and greatest consulting detective, was high.

     Sherlock's eyes fluttered close as he felt the gush of what he thought was LSD, push and pull in his blood like a roller coaster flying off the tracks. 

     The pale man almost failed to grasp the fact that this became an unruly habit of his. When his thoughts and 'emotions' became too unbearable for him, he turned his drugs as a shoulder to lean on. But drugs hadn't always been the option Sherlock Holmes negotiated to. The only support he had had was his cause for using drugs that  he was injecting now.

 

 

     The low glimmering light that peeked from behind the closed curtains were the only source of light in dark flat. 221B Baker Street was usually always gloomy, while the oxygen in the room that swarmed inside was damp and smelt of chemicals and rotting flesh that came from the fridge. And now smoke that was protruding from cigarettes that laid upon the astray. Dishes were towering in the sink, left uncleaned by Mrs. Hudson; who was out running errands. Once again, the fridge was filled more with body parts and failed experiments than food. Yet Sherlock wasn't bothered by the unnatural state his flat was in.

     Sherlock's heavy lungs heaved, as he stared up dazedly at the blank ceiling, counting the specks of dust that floated by his unblinking eyes. 

     Once in a while (i.e., whenever it was deathly quiet, which was always), Sherlock found himself asking the same question that haunted his mind. _"How did it end up like this?"_ and the answer only got more frequent and clearer every time he thought of it. It always dragged out of the trenches of his mind, clawing at him like a beast with sharp claws. 

      _The wedding._

     It was the wedding. John Watson, and Mary Morstan's wedding. 

     Sherlock practically begged on his knees, pleading for the LSD to take effect on him before he was too deep in thought, to shut him down for a while so he could recollect himself.

 

 

     Sherlock Holmes hadn't had a worthwhile case that was up to his standards in months. Clients stopped coming when John did. 

      _Oh John. Why John._ Why couldn't he just evaporate into nothing and leave him be; technically he has. The last evidence of John living at 221B was all but robbed. John's presence was like a ghost, looming around silence. Yet knowing it was stalking you, around you, it's chill sending a shiver down the 33 vertebras of your spine whenever it came close. 

     Sherlock's skin crawled, a small groan escaping through his teeth. He wrapped his arms around his noticeable ribs like a straight jacket. Now Sherlock was debating on whether or not he should inject another drug. 

      _No, John wouldn't like that._ He never did.

 

It dawned upon Sherlock countless times that he felt himself as a defect in the human population of over 8 billion. A glitch in the system. He roamed the earth in search for someone who had tolerance levels as high as the Ozone layer. But nobody could put up with his nonsense like John Watson had.

     Another jolt of shivers struck Sherlock like a blow to the head. He bit his lip, fearing he may draw blood, his consciousness flickering. 

     Yes, Sherlock felt it. He felt himself, he, himself, a defect. The feeling was there. No matter how much Sherlock tried to ignore it, holding his breath like he was underwater to not admit it himself, though the truth could not be blinded. Describing emotions was one of Sherlock's weak points. But the words were able to flow out of him after years of repeating.

      _Love._ He loved John Watson, he always had. But John loved someone else, not him. 

     Mary, he loved Mary. 

     Why was it Mary. 

     Now, Sherlock clutched his head with such brutal force it made his head boggle. A force pushed against Sherlock's chest. A cry, Sherlock cried out vehemently, ripping through him as his vocal chords weeped, straining his already aching muscles.

     Nobody came to help him. Nobody was there. Nobody heard his ear-spitting cry echoing off the walls of the empty flat. Sherlock's own scream ringed in his ears even when it had died out. Black spots began to bloom in front of his eyes. 

     His legs were moving, ignoring the soreness in his bones. He was standing, pacing frantically around the flat in circles. He was still gripping at his curls, clawing at his scalp as if something was attacking him and he was trying to pry it off. Sherlock started to mumble under his breath, but it wasn't his voice. The voices inside his head were booming in rhythmic chantings that only he could hear. They were screaming, their voices sounding exactly like his own bloodcurdling scream. Sherlock refused to believe he was losing his mind over someone who never even belonged to him, someone who constantly reminded him that was no longer forced him to act like a human being. 

     No, Sherlock Holmes was a human being without manipulation or reminders. A machine, he had called himself; to avoid being hurt by emotions of sentiment. But he was wrong, utterly wrong. Sherlock Holmes was a human being from the start. But Sherlock's realization meant nothing. He was too late, John was already in the hands of someone else he had made vows to, and loved back. 

     Sherlock's cold heart was pounding more rapidly, he was breathing so heavily his face was turning red with suffocation. Sherlock had recognized these symptoms before. It was not the cause of the LSD, but a panic attack. He has been having these for weeks on end but refused to tell anyone about it.

     Unaware of his actions, he was on the floor, now gripping his hair even tighter than before, afraid if he let go he would fall. He heard himself screaming again, his voice trailing down a dark tunnel that only enhanced the broken emptiness in its tone. For once, Sherlock was lighter than air, his eyelids were falling to a close, like curtains drawing after a performance. It was difficult to wrap his head around the seer fact that Sherlock had recalled that his voice sounded like it had meaning to it, that under it's sound, was importance. He was calling John's name.

 

**Author's Note:**

> One out of two. I'll have a link when the second part is done.


End file.
